V 


(    LIBRARY 

I      UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
\       SAN  DIEGO 


3  ^> 


SCROGGINS 


SCROGG1NS 


SCROGGINS 


BY 


JOHN    URI    LLOYD 

AUTHOR    OF     "  STRINGTOWN     ON 
THE  PIKE,"  "  RED  HEAD,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS   AND 
DECORATIONS   BY 

REGINALD   B.  BIRCH 


DODD,     MEAD    &    COMPANY 

NEW       YORK::::::MCMIV 


Copyright,  1900,  1904, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

Published,  November 


To  the 
CINCINNATI  LITERARY  CLUB 

Before  whom  the  author  read  this 
sketch,  from  the  manuscript 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 


CHAPTER 

I     THE  JOURNEY  OF  SCROGGINS           1 

II     THE  OLD  HOME  OF  SCROGGINS      16 

III  THE  GRAVEYARD  OF  OLD  ...          ...  22 

IV  BROTHER  AND  SISTER          

V     "I  HAVEN'T  ANYTHING  ELSE  BUT  SISTER"  33 

VI     THE  BEQUEST  

VII     CHILD-LOVE               •          •••  55 

VIII     LUCY  MOORE            74 

IX     A    SECOND    REQUEST — "WHEN    THE    OLD 

MAN'S  WORK  is  DONE"        109 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

SCROGGINS FRONTISPIECE 

SPEAK  TER  ME,  SISTER  ;   SPEAK  TER 

ME'  " Facing  page     36 

AND  GREW  TO  ENVY  THE  FLICKER  OF 
THE  CANDLE-LIGHT  THAT  BATHED 
HER  FACE" "  "62 

"  HE  STRODE  AWAY,  TURNED  BACK. 
'  PLEASE,  MA'AM,  JIM  DIDN'T 
STEAL  THAT  Music  Box  '  "  106 


SCROGGINS 


CHAPTER    I 

THE    JOURNEY    OF     SCROGGINS 

SCROGGINS.,  an  eccentric  old  Rocky  Moun 
tain  stage  driver,  made  a  lucky  investment  in 
the  stock  of  a  Western  mining  claim,  and  be 
came,  unexpectedly,  very  wealthy.  He  at 


SCROGGINS 

once  gave  up  the  vocation  he  had  followed  for 
twenty  years,  and  prepared  to  "  take  it  easy." 
With  this  object  in  view,  he  first  made  a  tour 
of  the  Colorado  canons,  but  found  little  of  in 
terest  in  the  fantastic  natural  castles,  with  their 
striated  bluffs  and  coloured  walls,  that  chal 
lenge  imagination  and  belittle  man. 

Then  he  wandered  among  the  homes  of  the 
Cliff  Dwellers,  but  the  relics  of  that  lost  people 
brought  to  him  no  pathetic  touch  concerning 
the  human  lives  that  had  left  their  only  story 
in  these  forsaken  domiciles.  The  spirit-cry 
that  penetrates  the  minds  of  cultured  men  who 
stand  on  the  hallowed  places  of  a  race  vanished 
from  earth  was  unheard.  The  fragmentary 


[8] 


THE 


JOURNEY 


ruins  were  but  groups  of  hovels,  in  stone,  to 
him. 

Scroggins  next  turned  his  face  toward  the 
South.  He  rode  through  the  sands  of  arid 
New  Mexico,  wearing  the  life  out  of  one  mus 
tang,  and  then  another.  What  cared  he  for 
a  brace  of  brutes?  He  tramped  the  Arkansas 
bottoms,  and  in  the  home  of  the  cypress,  gave 
as  little  thought  to  the  mystery  of  the  fantastic 
cypress  knees  that  stud  the  swamp,  like  living 
tombstones,  as  he  did  to  the  rootless  gray  moss 
that,  funeral  like,  draped  the  mighty  trees. 
The  famous  Everglades  of  Florida  were  dis 
mal  swamps  to  him,  the  bayous  of  the  South 
were  but  sluggish  creeks,  flowing  in  natural 
ditches. 


of  brvrtei  r 


[3] 


SCROGGINS 

The  great  piles  of  shells  on  the  coast  of 
Florida,  bivalve-monuments  that  speak  of  pre 
historic  gluttony,  adding  another  paragraph 
to  the  long  story  of  man's  sacrifice  of  helpless 
life,  excited  less  movement  in  Scroggins' 
ossified  brain  than  did  a  single  oyster  on  his 
dinner-plate.  The  fact  that  the  Mississippi 
River  flows  upon  a  ridge  of  earth  made  up  of 
gravel,  sand,  and  clay,  in  the  depths  of  which 
lie  great  trees  and  fragments  of  wood  whose 
lost  histories  stagger  the  mind  of  him  who 
attempts  to  locate  the  period  in  which  their 
growth  was  made,  to  Scroggins  was  a  matter 
of  no  moment.  What  concern  was  it  of  this 


THE 


JOURNEY 


Western  stage-driver,  whether  the  male  or  the 
female  of  the  sugar-cane  had  been  lost  in  ages 
past  ?  What  was  it  to  him  whether  the  banana 
had  ever  possessed  more  than  the  rudiments  of 
seed  now  shown  in  the  black  specks  imbedded 
in  the  fruit  pulp?  Nothing.  'Twas  for  him 
enough,  if  sugar  and  bananas  were  at  hand 
when  he  wished  them. 

Then  Scroggins  wandered  down  into  the 
sunny  land  of  the  Montezumas,  where,  more 
than  a  century  before  the  Puritan  with  his 
Bible  and  his  sword  landed  on  the  frozen 
shores  of  the  North,  men  following  the  Cross 


SCROGGINS 

had  made  history  by  conquest.  But  to  Scrog- 
gins  came  no  heart-thrill  in  the  story  of  it -all. 
Enough  for  him  that  in  each  case  the  native, 
who  rightfully  owned  the  land,  had  disap 
peared.  He  crossed  the  charmed  land  of  the 
Incas  of  old,  but  the  Sierra  Madres  to  him 
were  only  mountains.  The  Gulf  of  Cortez 
lay  at  his  feet,  but  it  was  only  water,  water 
that  beat  stone  and  sand  as  does  other  water. 
It  was  no  concern  of  his,  if  the  rightful  name 
of  the  great  leader,  Cortez,  first  applied  to  that 
magnificent  gulf,  had  been  brushed  aside  by 
the  maker  of  maps  to  be  replaced  by  a  foreign 
word.  The  story  of  the  pirates  of  La  Paz,  the 


THE 


JOURNEY 


lives  of  the  monks  of  San  Bias,  the  ruins  of 
the  great  Cathedral  of  Loreto,  where  five 
hundred  years  ago  centred  the  efforts  of  the 
missions  of  all  the  Californias,  to  Scroggins 
were  as  utterly  lost  as  if  they  had  been  but 
legends. 

Finally,  Scroggins  sat  awkwardly  in  a  dug 
out  on  the  waters  of  that  beautiful  bay  which 
had  given  to  the  world  the  queen  of  all  pearls, 
now  in  the  crown  of  Spain.  But  the  story  of 
this  gem  is  history,  and  for  Scroggins  history 
had  no  attraction.  An  Indian  diver,  who  had 
risked  his  life  in  its  search,  held  before  him  a 
magnificent  pearl  of  purest  white  and  richest 


SCROGGINS 

lustre.     It,  too,  had  come  out  of  those  clear 
blue  waters. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  journey,  Scroggins' 
heart  throbbed,  not  because  of  the  beauty  of 
the  pearl,  not  by  reason  of  connected  associa 
tions,  but  because  of  some  unaccountable  touch 
it  inspired  concerning  the  long  ago.  His 
brain  was  sluggish,  his  hand  callous,  his  heart 
tough,  and  yet  the  sight  of  this  fair  pearl 
struck  a  nerve  leading  to  a  secret  heart-cham 
ber.  A  tear  sprang  to  the  eye  of  the  man,  as 
a  phantom  child-face  rose  from  out  the  misty 
realms  of  the  past,  invisible  to  others,  but  alive 


THE 


JOURNEY 


again  for  him.  The  gem  was  sacred  that  bred 
the  thought. 

For  a  moment  only  the  old  man  hesitated. 
No  living  woman,  be  she  queen  or  village 
maiden,  should  that  fair  pearl  touch.  Care 
fully  he  took  it  from  out  his  open  palm,  and 
held  it  tight  between  thumb  and  forefinger. 
Then,  before  the  native  diver  could  compre 
hend  his  purpose,  back  it  went  into  the  waters 
of  the  great  bay,  down  into  the  crystal  sea  that 
beats  the  shore  of  beautiful  Loreto. 

The  diver  was  paralysed  as  it  vanished. 
His  face  spoke  his  distress.  For  that  pearl, 


SCROGGINS 

the  man's  life  had  been  risked  in  the  home  of 
the  shark. 

"How  much?"  abruptly  asked  Scroggins. 

"Five  hundred  dollars,"  was  the  trembling 
reply. 

Scroggins  counted  the  gold  into  the  brown 
hand  of  the  native.  Twice  the  amount  would 
have  been  as  freely  given.  What  is  gold  to 
one  who  would  have  given  a  million  dollars  for 
a  single  glance  at  the  sister  lost  in  the  years  of 
his  boyhood?  Could  the  old  man  have  made  a 
better  offering  in  behalf  of  the  memory  of  the 
girl  he  loved  so  dearly,  than  this  bit  of  purity 
that,  in  her  name,  he  had  so  reverently  con- 


[10] 


THE 


JOURNEY 


signed  to  the  clear  waters  of  the  Bay  of  Pearls, 
that  beats  the  gravel  shore  of  fair  Loreto? 

Leaving  the  land  of  warmth,  Scroggins 
journeyed  to  the  north,  and  crossed  the  plains 
of  the  Great  West.  Gazing,  day  after  day, 
at  the  endlessly  unrolling  panorama,  he  yet 
gave  no  thought  to  the  magnitude  of  his  coun 
try,  nor  to  the  richness  of  its  people.  The 
waste  of  plain,  with  countless  buffalo  wallows 
yet  lingering  in  the  soil,  but  now  possessed  only 
by  groups  of  nimble  prairie-dogs,  held  no 
pathos  for  Scroggins.  He  had,  in  unconcern, 
helped  exterminate  that  mighty  beast.  The 
fields  of  corn,  those  vast-spread  evidences  of 


[11] 


SCROGGINS 

man's  industry,  that  were  next  unrolled  before 
his  eyes,  were  alike  unappreciated.  The  relics 
of  the  Ohio  Mound  Builders  would  have  been 
unnoticed  by  him  had  they  not  been  pointed 
out  by  a  car  acquaintance.  They  suggested 
nothing  but  mud-piles,  and  to  Scroggins  very 
small  ones. 

Thence  he  fled  to  the  land  of  snow,  to  that 
part  of  America  where  the  tongue  is  French, 
the  land  "New  France,"  and  yet  over  which 
the  flag  of  England  floats.  But  here  he  drew 
no  inspiration  from  the  endless  legends  that 


[12] 


THE 


JOURNEY 


spoke  of  lust  and  sin,  of  unsullied  love  and  re 
ligious  fervency,  nor  yet  from  the  precious 
relics  that  told  of  war  and  suffering,  crimes 
and  horrors,  martyrdom  in  behalf  of  the 
Church,  and  savage  man's  sacrifices  for  home 
and  country.  Yet  he  gaped  in  amazement  at 
the  two-wheeled  calash  of  Quebec  in  which  he 
sat,  much  as  a  mouse  might  sit  in  a  broken 
pumpkin  shell.  That  vehicle  was  within  his 
circumscribed  comprehension,  and  as  he  jolted 
over  the  "  Heights  of  Abraham,"  or  stood  amid 
the  ruins  of  Chateau  Bigot,  he  thought  less  of 


[13] 


SCROGGINS 

all  these  than  of  the  clumsy  cart,  and  its  driver 
curiously  perched  before  him  on  the  dash 
board. 

Then  he  sought  Boston,  where  he  passed 
with  indifference  the  art  museums  and  libra 
ries,  to  stand  entranced  before  the  window  of 
a  harness  shop.  For  the  treasures  displayed 
therein  he  would  have  given  all  the  statues  of 
antiquity,  all  the  paintings  in  the  art  halls  of 
Christendom. 

Scroggins  had  now  travelled  the  country 
over,  searching  for  his  "easy  place,"  and  yet 
his  journeyings  had  but  served  to  illuminate 
more  conspicuously  the  fact  that  if  we  do  not 


[14] 


THE 


JOURNEY 


make  for  ourselves  an  "  easy  place  "  as  we  go, 
none  is  to  be  found  lurking  in  infirmity's  path 
at  the  journey's  end.  With  an  unlimited 
bank  account,  this  old  man  was  homeless. 
Homelessness  is  the  mother  of  discontent,  and 
discontent  is  the  enemy  of  happiness. 


[15] 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    OLD    HOME    OF    SCROGGINS 

FINALLY,  in  utter  weariness  of  spirit, 
Scroggins  turned  his  steps  toward  the  place 
of  his  birth,  where,  long  since,  he  had  knelt 
beside  the  open  grave  of  the  only  relative  he 
had  ever  known,  the  young  sister  whose  phan 
tom  face  had  sprung  to  view  that  day  in  the 


[16] 


THE      OLD      HOME 

canoe  on  the  waters  of  the  distant  Gulf.  "  I'll 
go  back  ag'in  and  see  the  old  spot,"  said  Scrog- 
gins,  as  he  pictured  anew  the  scenes  of  his 
childhood.  But  here  all  was  strange.  His 
native  village  had  grown  to  the  size  of  a  small 
city.  The  creek,  that  was  crystal  clear  when 
he  knew  it  as  a  boy,  now  ran  through  a 
tunnel  under  the  new  town.  The  clear  waters 
of  that  old  brook  where  he  once  caught 
speckled  trout  were  now  soiled  with  sewage. 

The  modest  homes,  and  their  picturesque 
surroundings,  had  been  devoured  by  that 
desecrating  cannibal,  misnamed  "Progress  of 


SCROGGINS 

Civilisation."  The  orchard  on  the  hillside, 
where  the  robins  and  thrushes  once  nested,  had 
been  destroyed  to  make  room  for  a  poorly 
ventilated  stone  court-house  and  a  window- 
grated  jail.  The  very  hills  had  been  shaved 
down  and  the  valleys  filled.  Seemingly,  no 
landmarks  remained  to  tell  the  heart-heavy 
man  of  localities  that  had  been  precious  in 
former  times. 

Scroggins  wandered  back  and  forth  with 
lengthened  face,  lost  in  the  home  of  his  birth 
place  ;  a  stranger  in  a  land  of  strangeness.  At 


[18] 


THE      OLD      HOME 

last,  he  stood  disconsolate  on  the  pavement  in 
the  centre  of  the  new  city;  a  city  that  seemed 
the  creation  of  a  dream.  More  than  half  a 
century  had  gone,  but  the  interval  that  sepa 
rated  the  boy  from  the  man  was  as  a  line.  On 
one  side  memory  had  shown  the  happy  child 
of  yesterday;  on  the  other  now  stood  the  un 
happy  man  of  to-day.  He  could  not  grasp 
the  hand  of  any  friend,  nor  could  he  appeal 
to  any  familiar  face,  for  in  all  that  new  city 
time  had  seemingly  left  no  friend  to  greet  the 
wanderer. 


[19] 


SCROGGINS 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  to  a  passer-by,  "  tell  me 

where  I  can  find  the "  What  should  old 

Scroggins  ask  to  find?  Stammering,  he  re 
peated,  "  The — the "  then  hesitatingly 

completed  the  sentence  with  the  word,  "  grave 
yard?" 

"Which  graveyard?  The  old,  or  the  new 
one?" 

Scroggins  was  puzzled.  His  question  had 
been  only  contrived  for  the  emergency;  the 
answer  was  unexpected.  He  looked  at  his 
vein- furrowed  hand;  instinctively,  he  ran  his 


[20] 


THE      OLD      HOME 

fingers  over  his  wrinkled  cheek;  a  helpless  ex 
pression  came  over  his  face.  The  stranger 
stood  expectant. 

"  Et  don't  seem  so  long  ago  since  I  stood  in 
et,  but  I  guess  thet  what  you  call  the  old 
graveyard  is  the  one  fer  me,"  he  falteringly 
replied. 

"  Come,"  said  the  stranger,  for  Scroggins' 
appearance  and  manner  had  touched  a  sympa 
thetic  spot;  "  I  will  lead  you  to  it." 


[21] 


CHAPTER     III 

THE    GRAVEYARD    OF     OLD 

IN  a  short  time  they  stood  before  a  close 
board- fence,  flush  with  the  sidewalk.  The 
guide  opened  a  door  and  pointed  within.  As 
Scroggins  turned  his  back  to  the  street,  his 
companion  saw  a  tear  trickle  down  his  rough 
cheek.  No  word  was  spoken.  The  door 
closed,  and  Scroggins  stood  in  the  old  grave 
yard. 


THE      GRAVEYARD 

Yes,  this  graveyard  alone  survived  out  of 
all  the  past;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  pro 
tection  of  the  church  within  whose  shadow  it 
stood,  it,  too,  must  long  since  have  disap 
peared.  The  church  itself,  scarred  and 
weather-worn,  stood  with  boarded  windows,  as 
if  in  resistful  protest;  its  eyes  were  closed  to 
the  present.  Of  all  the  village  he  had  known, 
this  little  graveyard,  with  the  modest  house  of 
worship  in  its  edge,  alone  was  left  to  Scrog- 
gins.  Here  the  hills  and  ravines  were  as  once 
he  knew  them,  only  now  they  were  more 
thickly  surmounted  by  green  hillocks.  Man's 


[23] 


SCROGGINS 

heartless  civilisation  had  not,  as  yet,  presumed 
to  desecrate  the  village  burying-ground. 

Slowly  Scroggins  passed  from  tomb  to 
tomb.  For  the  first  time  in  his  wanderings 
he  became  concerned  in  art,  a  phase  of  art  that 
has  interested  mankind  of  all  nations  and  con 
ditions — the  graveyard  art,  the  only  cosmo 
politan  art,  the  only  art  that  lives!  Scroggins 
read  the  names  of  men  and  women  whom  he 
had  known  as  a  child,  read  them  slowly,  and 
muttered  to  himself  as  he  did  so;  then  he 
passed  on,  again  to  stand  and  decipher.  Oc 
casionally  he  found  an  old,  old  stone,  where 
he  remembered  to  have  stood  bareheaded  be 
side  an  open  grave,  in  the  awe-spell  that  child- 


[24] 


THE     GRAVEYARD 


hood  feels  in  the  presence  of  death,  and  at  last 
he  reached  a  little  mound,  one  of  many  in 
a  long  row  of  little  mounds.  Here  he  halted 
for  a  moment,  then  stooped,  opened  his  clasp- 
knife,  and  scraped  the  green  moss  from  the 
face  of  the  small  brown-stone  slab.  Slowly  he 
deciphered,  in  the  weather-softened  surface, 
the  words: 

JENNIE  SCROGGINS, 
Poorhouse  Child. 

ONLY  SISTER  OF  JAMES  SCROGGINS. 

Died  June  10,  1809. 

Aged  ten  years. 

Old  Scroggins  sank  prone  upon  the  ground. 
A  flood  of  painful  recollections  crushed  upon 


Old 

SCROGGINS 


crude 


ditty 


[25] 


him.  The  stone  was  damp  and  water-sogged 
where,  with  trembling  hands,  he  had  just 
scraped  away  the  bits  of  moss,  from  which 
scampered  little  brown  creatures  that  had 
never  before  been  disturbed.  His  fingers, 
from  which  the  open  knife  had  dropped, 
rested  against  the  chilly  base,  but  the  coldness 
of  the  tombstone's  earth-soaked  dampness  was 
unfelt.  The  face  of  the  child,  that  had  been 
revived  by  the  pure  white  pearl  in  his  palm 
when  the  waters  of  the  sunny  gulf  rocked 
the  boat  of  the  Indian  diver,  was  before  him 


[26] 


THE     GRAVEYARD 

again.  The  present  had  fled — the  old  man 
lived  in  the  past.  He  was  young  again — 
young,  in  the  very  face  of  the  confronting 
evidences  of  age.  No  longer  did  he  think 
of  the  wrinkled  face,  he  saw  no  more  the 
knotty  finger- joints,  nor  the  swollen  veins  on 
the  back  of  his  hands,  which  were  covered  with 
the  brown  hair  of  age.  In  his  mind,  the  great 
trees  in  the  graveyard  shrank  to  saplings— 
they,  too,  were  young.  The  wheel  of  time 
had  turned  backward,  the  light  from  within 
possessed  the  man  of  years;  the  city  without 
was  again  a  village;  Scroggins  was  a  boy. 


[27] 


CHAPTER    IV 

BROTHER    AND    SISTER 

A  TINY  little  girl  she  was,  a  sturdy  boy  he, 
but  neither  could  recall  father  or  mother.  If 
ever  they  had  a  parent,  no  mention  was  made 
by  others  of  that  fact.  Even  the  children 
with  whom  they  played  evaded  the  subject. 
If  they  knew  the  story,  they  did  not  speak  of 
it.  They  were  brother  and  sister  and,  so  far 
as  he  knew,  his  sister  and  himself  were  the 
only  Scrogginses  in  the  world.  Together 


[28] 


they  lived  in  the  poorhouse,  but,  unaware  of 
class  distinctions,  felt  no  humiliation  because 
they  were  poorhouse  children.  Nor  were  they 
conscious  of  the  loneliness,  for  each  was  by 
nature  sanguine,  and  the  love  each  bore  the 
other  was  the  full  measure  of  what  most 
children  scatter  over  father,  mother,  brother, 
and  sister. 

She  had  been  sleeping  more  than  fifty 
years,  and  he  was  now  past  sixty;  but  under 
the  influence  of  this  memory-touch,  the  past 
and  the  present  met.  Together  they  played 
their  childish  games,  together  they  ran  er 
rands  ;  and  occasionally  earned  a  penny  which, 
as  their  expenses  were  paid  by  the  county,  they 


[29] 


SCROGGINS 

kept  for  themselves.  Thus  it  was  that  their 
little  treasure  increased  to  a  few  silver  dollars, 
and  at  last  the  silver  pieces  were  exchanged 
for  a  gold  coin.  Happy  day!  Rich  old 
Scroggins  had  again  found  the  "easy  place" 
in  life,  resting  in  an  old  graveyard,  dreaming 
of  the  poorhouse! 

Scroggins,  once  again  the  poorhouse  child, 
smiled  as  he  had  rarely  smiled  since  he  became 
a  millionaire;  smiled,  as  other  miserable,  gold- 
bound  slaves  might  smile  and  laugh  could 
they  but  throw  aside  the  cause  of  their  dis- 


[30] 


BROTHER   AND   SISTER 

content,  and  live  in  the  memory  of  poverty's 
joys.  Blessed  be  the  illusion  that  brings  a 
smile  to  such  as  tough  old  Scroggins!  The 
scenes  of  his  childhood  passed  before  his  mind 
as  a  panorama,  in  which  again  he  chuckled 
over  the  pleasures  of  other  days;  he  romped 
and  danced  on  the  poorhouse  green;  he  lolled 
in  the  grass  of  departed  summers;  he  rolled 
the  snowballs  of  vanished  winters. 

Ah,  the  smile  disappears!  Has  the  illusion 
vanished?  Is  Scroggins  himself  again?  No. 
He  lies  still  upon  the  damp  ground,  uncon- 


[31] 


SCROGGINS 

scious  of  the  present.  He  is  yet  an  air-castle 
child,  but  the  misery  of  a  long- for  gotten 
grief  is  again  upon  him — Sister  Jennie  is 
sick! 


[32] 


CHAPTER    V 

"I   HAVEN'T  ANYTHING  ELSE  BUT  SISTER" 

AN  approaching  shadow  had  cast  its  chill 
over  the  responsive  brother's  heart,  and  before 
the  doctor  suspected  danger  the  boy  felt  that 
deepest  sorrow  was  coming.  He  tiptoed  up 
and  down  the  cheerless  corridors,  or  crouched 
in  the  gloom  of  the  hall  before  the  silent  room. 


[33] 


SCROGGINS 

At  last,  the  doctor  became  disturbed.     Con 
cern  showed  in  his  face. 

Little  Scroggins  could  not  doubt  that  ex 
pression.  He  slipped  away,  and  took  from 
its  hiding  place  the  one  gold  coin,  the  treasure 
of  two  hearts,  and  waited  at  Jennie's  door. 
When  the  doctor  appeared,  the  boy,  without 
a  word,  thrust  the  coin  into  his  hand,  and 
looked  up  pleadingly  into  the  face  of  the  help 
less  man.  "No,  no,  child!  I  cannot  take 
your  money."  The  tender-hearted  physician 
handed  it  back,  and  turned  away.  "Please, 
doctor!"  murmured  little  Scroggins;  "other 


[34] 


NOTHING     BUT    SISTER 

boys  have  mammas  and  papas,  but  I  haven't 
anything  else  but  Sister." 

The  doctor  silently  led  him  into  the  room. 
"  Kiss  Sister  good-night,"  he  said.  The  boy 
threw  himself  beside  the  bed,  stroked  the  silken 
tresses,  and  caressed  the  thin  hands.  The 
girl  smiled.  The  hair  of  his  child-sister 
(phantom  locks  now,  but  as  real  to  him  as  in 
other  days)  was  within  old  Scroggins's  palm. 
The  great  sorrow  of  his  life  was  again  a 
reality.  "  Sister,  Sister,  speak  ter  me!"  The 
old  man  spoke  aloud.  Beneath  that  spell,  his 
hand  smoothed  the  neglected  grass  on  the 


[35] 


SCROGGINS 

little  hillock.  ^  "  Sister,  speak  ter  me!"  he 
pleaded. 

Evening  had  now  fallen.  Twilight  and  a 
wandering  stranger  found  withered  old  Scrog- 
gins  kneeling  over  the  neglected  grave  of  the 
child  of  long  ago,  muttering,  "  Speak  ter  me, 
Sister;  speak  ter  me!" 

"  The  night  is  nearly  here,  my  friend," 
said  the  man.  "Would  we  not  better  de 
part?" 

Startled,  Scroggins  arose.  The  child-life 
in  which  he  had  been  living  vanished,  the  tomb 
stones  rose  up,  like  shadows  they  came  again 
to  view.  Without  a  word  he  turned  his  weary 


[36] 


SPEAK    TER    ME,    SISTER  I    SPEAK    TER    ME 


NOTHING     BUT    SISTER 

footsteps  toward  the  busy  world  that,  outside 
the  graveyard  fence,  was  treading  its  own  way 
past  this  old  cemetery  toward  another  that, 
somewhere  in  the  future,  lies  across  the  end 
of  each  man's  path. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE    BEQUEST 

SCROGGINS  sought  the  hotel,  and  sat  long 
in  meditation  in  his  room.  "  Thar's  no  use  in 
talkin',"  he  muttered,  "I've  got  ter  git  rid 
of  this  money.  I've  got  ter  stop  this  blame 
foolishness,  and  go  back  ter  work."  After 
another  period  of  meditation  he  rang  the 
bell,  and  asked  that  the  landlord  be  sent 
to  him.  Upon  his  appearance,  Scroggins 


[38] 


THE 


BEQUEST 


stated  that  he  desired  the  mayor  of  the  city 
to  call  on  him.  To  this  the  landlord  de 
murred,  stating  that  it  was  more  befitting  for 
Scroggins  to  seek  the  mayor. 

"You  may  be  right,"  said  Scroggins;  "but 
ef  the  mayor  don't  come  ter  this  room  in  less 
'n  an  hour,  this  blasted  city  loses  a  gift." 

The  landlord  looked  at  him  incredulously. 
Scroggins  took  out  his  watch  and,  in  reply 
to  the  questioning  look,  said,  "  One  hour,  I 
says,  and  I  mean  jest  one  hour." 

The  landlord  hesitated.  The  appearance 
of  the  old  man  did  not  indicate  that  he  could 
make  much  of  a  gift  to  anyone. 


[39] 


SCROGGINS 

"  Five  minutes  hev  passed,"  said  Scroggins. 

The  landlord,  too  artful  to  offend  a  guest, 
said:  "My  good  man,  be  reasonable.  This  is 
untimely.  It  is  the  mayor's  supper  hour.  Is 
there  necessity  for  such  haste?" 

"You  hev  lost  more'n  a  minute,"  said 
Scroggins  testily. 

"What  reason  have  I  to  believe  that  you 
can,  or  will,  fulfil  the  promise  you  make?" 

"  The  proof  will  be  given  when  the  hour 
hes  passed.  Ef  the  mayor  don't  visit  me 
within  this  hour,  a  stunnin'  gift  es  lost  ter  this 
city,  and  you  will  hev  acted  the  fool." 

"Well,"  musingly  muttered  the  landlord, 


[40] 


THE          BEQUEST 

"this  is  a  strange  occurrence.  If  I  call  the 
mayor "  He  hesitated. 

"You're  a  gump  ef  you  don't,"  retorted 
Scroggins. 

"  If  I  call  the  mayor,"  continued  the  land 
lord,  "  I  may  become  an  innocent  party  to  a 
practical  joke — 

"  Ef  you  don't  call  him,  you  may  bet  your 
life  you  will,"  said  Scroggins. 

'  To  a  practical  joke,  or  a  tragedy,"  said 
the  landlord,  completing  the  sentence. 

"  Five  minutes  more  air  gone." 

The  landlord  eyed  Scroggins  from  head  to 
foot.  All  he  saw  was  an  ordinary,  comfor- 


[41] 


SCROGGINS 

tably  dressed  old  man,  with  weather-beaten 
face. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"  Scroggins." 

"What  are  you?" 

"What  am  I?"  repeated  Scroggins. 
"What  am  I?  A  stage-driver  from  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  I  was  raised  in  the  poor- 
house,  here." 

"  I'll  not  call  the  mayor." 

The  landlord  turned  to  the  door.  Scrog 
gins  thrust  the  open  watch  before  his  face. 


THE         BEQUEST 

"  Forty-three  minutes  are  left  you  yit."  The 
sharp-eyed  landlord  caught  sight  of  the  work 
manship  of  the  watch,  its  make,  and  finish. 
He  stopped  and  said,  "I  will  go." 

Scroggins  was  not  surprised  at  the  land 
lord's  decision.  He  had  learned  that  the 
mayor  boarded  at  the  hotel,  and  could  come  to 
him  without  trouble.  In  a  few  minutes  that 
dignitary  entered,  accompanied  by  the  land 
lord. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  mayor,  "can  I  do 
anything  for  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Scroggins,  "  you  kin  relieve  me 
of  some  money.  Sit  down." 


[43] 


SCROGGINS 

The  old  man  hitched  his  chair  opposite. 
Their  knees  touched. 

"Be  quick,  my  good  fellow.  I've  an  en 
gagement  shortly." 

"  I  haven't  got  but  little  ter  say,  but  I  want 
ter  say  et  bad.  I  ain't  no  book-larned  man, 
and  I  ain't  got  a  smooth  tongue.  I  ain't  no 
city  chap,  neither,  but  I  kin  tell  what  I  feels, 
and  I  hev  got  feelin's  es  well  es  city  chaps." 

"Of  course,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the 
mayor,  in  a  kindly  tone. 

"  What  I  wants  ter  tell  you  most  is  thet  et 


[44] 


THE 


BEQUEST 


don't  do  no  good  fer  a  feller  ter  git  rich, 
less  'n  he  keeps  at  work,  er  less  'n  his  money 
makes  him  work." 

"  To  some  of  us  the  subject  of  riches  is  of 
no  personal  concern,"  said  the  mayor,  as  he 
surveyed  Scroggins'  rough  garments.  His 
reply  was  personal,  and  Scroggins  felt  it. 

"  I'm  qualified  ter  speak,  sir;  and  I  tells  you 
that  fer  a  feller  like  me,  thar  ain't  no  fun  in 
settin'  down  and  lookin'  at  nothin'.  Ner  thar 
ain't  no  comfort  in  travellin'  like  a  wild  goose. 
What's  the  use  in  tryin'  ter  eat  up  a  million 


[45] 


SCROGGINS 

dollars  when  a  feller  ain't  got  no  appetite, 
and  only  one  stomach?  The  rich  man  with 
only  one  stomach's  ter  be  pitied,  Mr.  Mayor. 
Et's  a  mistake  ter  git  rich,  less  'n  you  know 
how  ter  think.  I  ain't  got  no  eddycation,  and 
I  can't  think  of  nothin'  but  stage-drivin'.  I'm 
qualified  ter  speak,  I  says,  fer  I'm  rich,  sir, 
and  hev  tried  ter  en j  'y  myself  with  everything 
thet  money  will  buy;  but,  Mr.  Mayor,  et  ain't 
no  use.  I  don't  keer  fer  nothin'  but  thet  old 
stage  on  the  gulch  road.  I  sits  and  tries  ter 
think  like  eddycated  men  does.  I  listens  ter 
the  talk  of  people  'bout  me,  but  et  ain't  no  use. 


[46] 


THE          BEQUEST 

I  can't  think.  Now,  Mr.  Mayor,  I  wants  ter 
help  other  people  ter  think,  and  then  I  pur 
poses  ter  go  back  ter  the  stage-line,  and  I 
don't  want  this  dev'lish  money  ter  bother  me 
no  more.  I  hev  drawed  the  lines  on  the  bosses 
till  I'm  old.  Stage-drivin's  my  bisness,  and  I 
knows  et,  and  I  wants  ter  die  a-holdin'  of  them 
lines.  Sence  I  left  thet  job,  I've  been  miser 
able,  damnation  miserable!  I  hev  seen  the 
bosses,  the  cliffs,  the  creek,  the  stage,  the  pas 
sengers  on  the  gulch-road,  every  day  and  every 
hour  sence  I  war  fool  'nough  ter  leave  the 
gulch-line.  I  sees  them  when  I'm  awake,  and 


[47] 


SCROGGINS 

dreams  'bout  them  when  I  sleeps.  I  can't 
think  of  no  thin'  else.  I  wants  ter  be  jolted 
on  a  stage,  but  I  don't  want  no  other  feller 
ter  drive,  fer  I  wants  ter  hold  the  lines  myself. 
I  wants  ter  go  down  Boulder  Hill  ag'in  on 
the  box,  my  foot  on  the  brake.  I  wants  ter 
freeze  my  fingers  in  the  winter,  and  brown  my 
scalp  in  the  summer.  I  wants  ter  feel  the 
melted  snow  trickle  down  my  back,  and  I 
wants  ter  scrape  the  frost  off 'n  my  whiskers. 
I  wants  ter  fight,  ter  git  shot,  and  ter  shoot 
back  ag'in.  Et  don't  make  no  difference,  Mr. 
Mayor,  how  rich  and  ign'rant  a  man  is,  ef  he 


[48] 


THE         BEQUEST 

only  hes  sense  'nough  ter  keep  on  workin' 
after  gittin'  rich;  but  ef  he  tries  ter  quit  work 
an'  enj'y  himself  by  lookin'  at  things  with  his 
eyes,  an'  thinkin'  with  his  no  'count  brain,  an' 
stuffin'  his  one  stomach  like  et  war  a  hogshead, 
he  air  a  fool.  He  can't  think  of  nothin'  but 
work;  he  don't  keer  fer  nothin'  else,  and  he 
don't  know  nothin'  else.  I've  got  my  wind 
ag'in,  and  I'm  goin'  back  ter  the  gulch." 

"But,  my  good  man,  you  are  old.  Your 
place  is  filled  by  some  other  man.  Perhaps 
you  cannot  again  get  it." 

"Pardner,"  said  Scroggins,  "thar  ain't  no 


[49] 


SCROGGINS 

question  'bout  my  gittin'  that  place.  Yer  see, 
I  warn't  dead  sure  'bout  the  outcome  of  this 
here  trip,  when  the  claim  panned  rich  and  I 
started  East,  an'  so  I  said  ter  myself,  '  Scrog- 
gins,  mebbe  you'll  want  ter  come  back  ter  rest 
yourself  a-settin'  on  the  box  ag'in.'  I  didn't 
want  no  questions  raised  'bout  my  right  ter  the 
restin'-place,  an'  so  I  jest  bought  all  of  the 
stock  of  the  gulch-line.  Mr.  Mayor,  I  owns 
the  line.  When  I  picks  up  them  ribbons,  thar 
won't  be  no  agent  ter  say,  'Put  'em  down, 
Scroggins ! ' : 

The  eccentric  old  man's  story  seemed  as  yet 


[50] 


THE 


BEQUEST 


to  have  no  connection  with  the  visit  of  the 
mayor,  who  adroitly  intimated  as  much. 

'Yes,"  said  Scroggins,  "I'm  comin'  ter 
the  p'int.  I  wants  ter  unload  a  million  er 
more  dollars  on  this  town." 

His  hearers  now  seemed  concerned.  'You 
wish  to  make  a  bequest?"  said  the  mayor. 

"Cut  out  them  big  words,  Mr.  Mayor.  I 
wants  ter  leave  a  million  dollars  ter  build  a 
house  on  the  hill  near  this  city,  ter  teach  young 
people  how  ter  think.  Et  air  a  sin  ter  grow 
old,  an'  not  know  how  ter  think.  Things  war 
ag'in  me  when  I  war  young,  an'  et's  too  late 


[51] 


SCROGGINS 

now  f  er  me.  But  et  ain't  too  late  f  er  childern 
what's  ter  come  yet.  They'd  better  hev 
thinkin'  sense  than  money." 

"Do  you  wish  to  endow  a  university?" 

"  Adzactly ! — stone  front,  marble  hall,  gran 
ite  porch,  slate  roof.  I've  got  my  idea,  but 
can't  think  et  all  out.  I  purposes  ter  put  up 
the  cash  ter  buy  the  land,  ter  build  the  house, 
and  then  ter  leave  a  million  dollars  ter  run  the 
thing." 

'  You  astonish  me!  Can  you  be  in  earnest? 
Are  you  responsible  for  your  remarks?  What 
are  your  conditions?" 

"  I'm  'sponsible  fer  what  I  says,  and  I  hev 
only  one  favour  ter  ask,  and  thet  ain't  a  big 
one.  We  might  es  well  come  ter  the  p'int. 


THE          BEQUEST 

Et  air  this :  The  poorhouse-d'rectors  shell  hev 
the  right  ter  app'int  a  trustee  in  the  Eenstitu- 
tion,  and  any  child  of  the  poorhouse  thet  kin 
git  in,  shell  go  et  free.  I'll  pay  all  the  bills." 

The  mayor  was  puzzled.  Could  the  man 
be  responsible?  Scroggins,  quick  in  reading 
faces,  caught  the  trend  of  his  thought. 
"  Bring  the  lawyer  and  the  Jedge,  Mr.  Mayor, 
and  you  will  see  ef  Scroggins  air  a-drivin' 
straight."  He  pointed  to  the  door.  The 
mayor  and  the  landlord  bowed  themselves  out. 

Then  Scroggins  sat  down  and  chuckled  to 
himself.  From  time  to  time  he  clenched  his 
hands  as  if  he  were  holding  the  lines  of  a 
coach.  He  next  went  to  the  door  of  his  room 
and  locked  it,  removed  his  coat,  unbuttoned 


•f 

4 

[53] 


SCROGGINS 

his  suspenders,  tied  their  ends  to  the  chair  in 
front,  grasped  his  old  umbrella  as  if  it  were  a 
whip,  and  with  his  face  aglow,  sat  on  a  stool 
belabouring  the  chair.  Drawing  first  one  line 
and  then  the  other,  old  Scroggins  sang  a  crude 
ditty,  then  scolded  at  a  misbehaving  horse,  and 
finally  tumbled  the  chairs  and  himself  together 
on  the  floor  in  an  imaginary  wreck. 

"Thar  ain't  nothin'  like  et!"  he  cried  en 
thusiastically.  '  These  damn  fools  settin' 
'round  and  readin'  'bout  other  f  olks's  consarns, 
talkin'  gossip,  readin'  gossip,  thinkin  gossip 
fer  pleasure! — ha!  ha! — air  welcome  ter  the 
money.  Scroggins  air  goin'  back  ter  the 
gulch-line!" 


[54] 


CHAPTER    VII 


CHI  LD-LO  VE 

A  CHANGE  came  abruptly  over  his  spirit, 
The  improvised  whip  dropped  from  his  hand, 
and  while  the  grotesque  play-horses  were  yet 
before  him,  Scroggins  turned  to  the  battered 
old  wide-throated  carpet-sack  that  stood  be 
side  the  bed.  Opening  it,  he  took  out  gar 
ment  after  garment,  which  he  threw  in  dis 
order  upon  the  floor.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
satchel,  wrapped  in  coloured  paper,  lay  a 


Old 

SCROGGINS 


crude      , 

diity 


[55] 


SCROGGINS 

small  parcel,  which  he  held  thoughtfully  a 
moment.  Then,  with  deliberation,  clumsily, 
and  yet  aiming  to  be  gentle,  he  untied  the 
faded  blue  ribbon  that  encircled  the  worn 
covering.  Beneath  it  was  tattered  tissue, 
which  even  his  great  care  could  not  prevent 
from  tearing  again  as  the  creases  opened. 
His  rough  fingers  were  more  accustomed  to 
stiff  leather  than  to  fabric  such  as  this.  At 
length  the  casings  were  all  removed  and 
neatly  spread  upon  the  bed;  and  upon  the 
floor  sat  Scroggins,  holding  in  his  hand  a 
little  music-box. 


[56] 


CHILD 


LOVE 


Once  more  the  mind  of  the  man  turned  to 
the  past,  forgotten,  so  far  as  he  knew,  by  all 
save  himself.  The  broken  train  of  thought 
that  had  so  recently  taken  possession  of  the 
wanderer  was  again  renewed.  Before  him 
stood  the  great  building  from  which,  as  a  child, 
he  had  gone  out  into  the  world,  one  year  after 
the  passing  of  the  dear  little  sister  whom  his 
fortune,  a  single  coin  of  gold,  could  not  save. 

He  had  a  new  home  now,  in  a  family  where 
work  earned  him  the  right  to  live,  and  where 
he  worked  as  do  boys  from  the  poorhouse 
when  taken  to  a  home  where  poorhouse-boys 


[57] 


SCR     O     G     G     I     NS 

are  wanted.  Recollection  led  him  on.  In  this 
home  the  years  passed.  Young  Scroggins 
was  strong,  ruddy  of  cheek,  robust  of  frame. 
The  life  of  a  farmer-boy  in  New  England's 
fresh,  bracing  air,  nourished  by  the  healthful 
food  of  a  New  England  farmer's  home,  had 
given  the  youth  both  wealth  of  appetite  and 
pride  of  muscle.  He  was  scarcely  aware  of 
this,  and  yet  the  young  daughter  of  the  good 
man  who  had  given  Scroggins  a  home  found 
it  pleasant  to  be  near  the  strong  youth  who 
worked  so  faithfully,  and  who  never  tired  in 
his  endeavours  to  show  her  a  kindness.  They 
were  children  together  when  he  came  to  her 


[58] 


CHILD 


LOVE 


home,  she  being  the  only  child  of  the  well-to- 
do  farmer.  But  they  were  children  no  longer. 
Unconsciously,  love  had  replaced  the  friend 
ship  of  childhood.  Neither  appreciated  the 
change  that  had  come  upon  them.  Though 
now  a  man  in  size  and  strength,  he  was  yet  Jim 
Scroggins.  She  was  still  Lucy,  but  with  her 
the  artlessness  of  girlhood  had  passed  into  the 
loveliness  of  maidenhood.  Thus  it  was  that, 
before  even  the  mother  was  aware  of  the 
change  brought  by  the  passing  years,  the 
young  man  loved  her  daughter,  and  she  re 
turned  his  love.  As  yet,  Scroggins  had  said 
no  word  of  love. 


[59] 


SCROGGINS 

It  was  now  winter,  a  cold,  New  England 
winter.  Scroggins  was  much  in  the  house, 
for  the  snow  was  deep,  and  little  but  the  chores 
could  be  done  on  the  snow-bound  farm.  He 
was  much  with  Lucy,  peeling  apples,  cutting 
pumpkins,  moulding  candles,  helping  in  the 
roughest  part  of  the  kitchen- work,  and  assist 
ing  in  the  lighter  house-work.  And  yet  he 
said  no  word  of  love.  In  the  long  winter 
evenings  the  lad  would  sit  in  the  chimney 
corner  and  gaze  at  Lucy,  as  she  sat  sewing 
beside  the  stand  on  which  flickered  the  tallow 
candle.  From  out  the  shadows  he  watched 
the  play  of  light  and  shade,  as  the  tiny  flame 


[60] 


CHILD 


LOVE 


cast  its  gleaming  throb  of  graded  yellow  over 
the  face  of  the  girl.  In  silence  he  drank  in 
the  sweetness  of  the  scene,  and  grew  to  envy 
the  flicker  of  the  candle-light  that  bathed  her 
face,  while  he  sat  obscure  in  the  gloomy  corner, 
gazing  and  worshipping. 

Who  could  have  foretold  that  these  stolen 
glances  were  to  lead  to  the  second  great  sor 
row  that  came  into  the  life  of  the  poor- 
house-child?  Too  plainly  they  told  the  mother 
the  story  of  his  growing  love,  and  one  morn 
ing,  when  the  lad  had  driven  to  a  distant 
village,  she  held  a  long  and  earnest  conversa- 


[61] 


SCROGGINS 

tion  with  her  husband.     Scroggins  was  the 
subject  of  discussion. 

When  he  returned,  a  little  packet  that  he 
could  hardly  afford  to  purchase  was  down  in 
his  great  overcoat  pocket,  a  glow  of  happiness 
on  his  face,  anticipatory  of  the  joy  this  little 
present  would  bring  Lucy.  When  the  parcel, 
wrapped  in  tissue,  had  been  safely  placed  in 
her  hands,  the  sacrifice  was  repaid  a  thousand 
fold  by  the  artless  expression  of  her  thanks 
the  girl  gave  him,  whom  she  had  grown  to 
love.  But,  already,  the  seeds  of  Scroggins' 
second  great  sorrow  had  been  sown  in  the 
pleasant  candle-glances  which  he  had  thought 


[62] 


AND    GREW    TO    ENVY    THE    FLICKER    OF    THE    CANDLE-LIGHT    THAT 
BATHED     HER     FACE." 


CHILD 


LOVE 


unseen  by  all.  The  bitter  fruit  was  destined 
soon  to  be  his  portion. 

One  Sunday,  soon  after  his  joyous  offering 
had  been  made,  while  Scroggins  sat  in  his  attic 
room,  a  knock  came  at  the  door,  then  the  face 
of  Lucy's  mother  appeared.  In  her  hand  she 
held  the  parcel  the  lad  had  given  her  daughter. 
With  motherly  interest,  and  voice  that  was 
kind,  very  kind,  she  spoke  of  more  than  Scrog 
gins  had  ever  dreamed.  Then,  while  the 
youth  was  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  it  all, 
the  offering  was  returned.  He  made  no 
reply. 

The  watchful  mother  turned  to  depart,  but 


[63] 


SCROGGINS 

as  she  closed  the  door,  it  was  reopened  by 
Scroggins. 

"  Please  come  back  a  minute ;  just  a  minute," 
he  pleaded. 

The  mother  could  but  accede. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  may  I  ask  a  question?  It's 
all  so  sudden,  ma'am." 

"Go  on,  James." 

"  I  hadn't  though  of  love  before,  ma'am,  but 
I  guess  you're  right  'bout  it.  I  see  myself, 
now."  This  was  said  so  quietly  that  the 
mother  felt  relieved. 

"Love  comes  without  thought,  James." 


[64] 


CHILD 


LOVE 


"  I  guess  you  know  how  it  is,  ma'am,  else 
you  wouldn't  have  been  so  sure.  But  that 
ain't  what  I  wish  to  say.  It's  this:  Have  I 
done  Lucy  any  harm  in  loving  her  as  I  did? " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"And  has  it  hurt  me  any,  ma'am?" 

"No." 

"  Nor  it  hasn't  hurt  you? " 

"No." 

:'  Thank  you,  ma'am.  But  that  ain't  all  I 
want  to  know." 

"Go  on,  James." 


[65] 


SCROGG1NS 

"Other  boys  have  loved  other  girls, 
ma'am?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  so,  ma'am.  It  isn't  bad  for 
other  boys  and  girls  to  love  each  other, 
ma'am?" 

"No." 

"  Maybe  I  didn't  love  Lucy  enough?  " 

"  It  isn't  that,  James."  The  lad  looked 
puzzled. 

"There  wouldn't  have  been  any  Lucy, 
ma'am,  if  I  hadn't  jumped  into  the  mill-race 


[66] 


CHILD 


LOVE 


once.  She  had  nigh  'bout  floated  to  the  end 
of  the  sluice.  You  needn't  have  feared  any 
one  hurting  her  while  I  was  living." 

The  mother's  face  coloured.  The  lad  con 
tinued  : 

"I'm  strong  and  healthy,  ma'am?" 

"Yes." 

"I  haven't  many  bad  habits?" 

"  None  at  all,  James." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  I  can  farm  like  a 
man.  Work  comes  easy  to  me,  ma'am." 

"  You  are  the  best  hand  we  ever  had  on  the 
farm,  James." 


[67] 


SCROGGINS 

"And  I  belong  to  the  church?" 

"Yes.  The  minister  speaks  of  you  in  the 
highest  terms." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am.  You  won't  think 
hard  if  I  ask  a  question,  ma'am?  It's  so 
sudden." 

"  Go  on,  James." 

"  If  I  haven't  done  Lucy  any  harm,  nor  you 
either;  if  I  am  not  bad,  and  can  work,  and 
ain't  afraid  to  drown  for  her;  if  I  belong  to 
the  church,  as  all  good  people  should;  if  I  am 
strong  and  healthy  and  have  no  bad  habits; 


[68] 


CHILD 


LOVE 


if  it  is  not  wrong  for  boys  to  love  girls,  I  ask, 
ma'am,  what  I  have  done?" 

For  once,  the  woman  hesitated.  The  final 
question  had  been  "  so  sudden  "  to  her.  Then 
she  replied. 

"It  is  not  what  you  have  done,  James." 

"I'm  all  alone,  ma'am.  There  is  no  other 
Scroggins." 

"  That's  the  trouble,  James.     If " 

"Go  on,  ma'am.     If  what?" 

"If  there  had  been  a " 

'You  needn't  go  on,  ma'am!"     The  lad's 


[69] 


SCROGGINS 

loneliness  assumed  a  phase  it  had  never  done 
before.  'You  needn't  go  on,  ma'am,  unless 
you  can  tell  me  something  I  can  do  to  make  up 
for  what  some  other  man  didn't  do." 

"Nothing,  James." 

"  It's  wicked  for  me  to  think  it,  ma'am,  it's 
awful  for  me  to  say  it.  But  if  I  could  find 
the  coward  who  deserted  Sister  and  me,  and 
let  us  go  to  the  poorhouse,  I'd  choke  his  life 
out,  ma'am! "  The  Sister  brought  a  new  train 
of  thought. 

"May    I    ask    just    one    more    question, 


[70] 


CHILD 


LOVE 


"  If  Sister  had  lived,  couldn't  she  have  been 
like  other  girls?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  James.  Society  for 
bids." 

"But  it  wasn't  her  fault,  ma'am?" 

"  Nor  is  it  yours,  James." 

The  fingers  of  the  lad's  right  hand  clutched 
together.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  had  So 
ciety  by  the  throat,  I'd  squeeze  that,  too!" 

The  boy  arose  and  opened  the  door.  As 
the  woman  passed  out  he  took  her  by  the  arm. 
"  I  haven't  said  anything  to  Lucy,  and  I  shall 
not  give  her  any  trouble.  It's  mighty  hard, 
ma'am,  but  I'm  going  off,  forever." 


SCROGGINS 

That  night,  in  the  depths  of  the  New  Eng 
land  winter,  Scroggins  stood  beside  a  grave  in 
the  children's  row  of  the  poorhouse  cemetery. 

"Sister,"  he  said;  "Sister,  when  you  left 
me  all  alone,  it  was  awful  hard;  but,  Sister, 
I'm  glad  now  you're  gone.  It's  easier  fer 
such  as  you  and  me  to  be  dead  than  living!" 
Then  he  arose,  picked  up  a  carpet-sack  that 
rested  by  his  side,  and  tramped  away  in  the 
bright  moonlight  through  the  deep  snow. 

All  this,  and  more,  came  back  to  old  man 
Scroggins,  as  he  sat  on  the  floor,  beside  the 


«  roll«d 
th*   snoiu bulls 
of  v«nUh*ct 


[.»] 


CHILD 


LOVE 


bed  whereon  rested  the  little  music-box,  his 
gift  in  the  days  that  had  passed  to  the  girl 
he  had  loved  with  all  the  strength  of  growing 
manhood.  He  was  very  tired,  for  the  un 
usual  excitement  of  the  day,  the  strain  of  the 
pathetic  experiences  and  recollections,  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  had  worn  him  out.  His 
head  dropped,  slumber  came  upon  him;  and, 
thus,  with  the  old  music-box  in  his  rough  hand, 
with  the  tender  touch  of  faded  ambitions,  the 
reminiscences  of  a  saddened  youthful  love 
and  of  shattered  hopes  in  his  heart,  the  old 
man  slept. 


$umm«r» : 


[73] 


CHAPTER    VIII 

LUCY     MOORE 

WHEN  he  awoke  the  morning  had  well  ad 
vanced.  He  cast  his  eye  wonderingly  about 
the  room.  The  improvised  chair-horse,  the 
scattered  garments,  the  old  carpet-sack  by  his 
side,  the  little  music-box  on  the  bed,  near  where 
his  weary  head  had  rested,  were  about  and 
before  him.  He  rolled  his  eyes  and  pinched 
his  flesh.  Then,  as  comes  reality  to  one  amid 
strange  scenes  when  awakened  from  a  vivid 
dream  which  in  its  complications  connects  the 


[74] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


real  with  the  unreal,  it  all  came  slowly  back. 
The  wandering  in  the  churchyard,  the  inci 
dents  of  the  past  day,  the  closing  scene  in  the 
last  tableau  of  his  life,  were  not  more  of  fact 
than  was  the  dream  which  had  followed  so 
close  that  it  seemed  as  though  no  break  came 
between  the  reality  of  recollection  and  the  not 
less  real  vision  of  the  night.  Slowly  the  slug 
gish  mind  of  the  man  untangled  itself  from 
the  debris  of  past  recollection  and  the  vision 
of  a  future  that  the  dream  had  presented. 
"  I've  got  ter  do  it,"  he  muttered.  "  I'll  try 
and  find  Lucy  Moore."  He  arose  awkwardly, 


Old 

SCROGGWS 


crude 


,., 
ditty 


[75] 


SCROGGINS 

crammed  the  garments  in  the  carpet-sack, 
stood  the  chairs  upright,  washed  his  bearded 
face,  combed  his  coarse  hair,  took  a  drink  of 
whiskey  from  a  capacious  bottle,  and  then 
went  to  breakfast.  Next  he  sought  the  land 
lord  and  abruptly  said,  "  Once  thar  war  a 
fam'ly  named  Moore  lived  out  on  the  South 
road." 

"  I  have  not  been  here  long  enough  to  be 
come  acquainted  in  the  country.  My  business 
is  mainly  with  travellers." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Scroggins;  "I  know 


[76] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


the  road,  and  I  know  the  place."  Then  he 
sought  the  bank. 

"I've  a  mind  to  make  a  deposit  account,  if 
you're  willin'  ter  keer  f er  the  fund." 

"What  is  the  name?"  The  man  of  busi 
ness  asked  in  a  business  way. 

"Lucy  Moore.  Here's  the  securities." 
Scroggins  placed  a  large  envelope  in  his  hand. 
"  My  name's  Scroggins.  If  she  don't  call  fer 
it,  I'll  take  the  fund  back." 

The  officer  methodically  opened  the  envel 
ope.  A  look  of  surprise  came  over  his  face, 
and  well  it  might.  Such  a  special  deposit  was 


[77] 


SCROGGINS 

rarely  made  in  a  bank  of  this  little  city  near 
the  hill. 

"  The  signature  of  Miss  Moore  is  neces 
sary." 

"  It's  Lucy  Moore,  who  lived  on  the  South 
Road.  Mebbe  she's  dead.  If  she  don't  call 
and  sign  it,  I'll  take  it  back,  I  say.  Make  out 
the  book  in  her  name,  and  give  me  the  docy- 
ments." 

In  the  way  banks  do  business,  this  was  done ; 
and  when  Scroggins  departed  he  carried  a 
small  deposit-book  in  the  name  of  Lucy 
Moore,  and  a  pocket  cheque-book.  Past  the 
old  churchyard  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  past 
the  new  one  on  the  outskirts,  past  the  poor- 
house,  now  a  large  institution;  out  and  into 


[78] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


the  country  beyond,  went  Scroggins.  Here 
he  struck  a  road  that  led  due  south.  Tough 
old  Scroggins!  Tramping  was  to  him  as 
natural  as  holding  the  stage-coach  lines.  On 
he  went.  He  gave  no  heed  to  anyone,  nor  did 
the  passer-by  concern  himself  with  the  rough 
old  wayfarer  who  shuffled  along  in  the  dust  of 
the  South  Road.  Finally  Scroggins  stopped. 
To  the  right,  on  a  rise,  stood  an  old  farm 
house.  Before  it  a  meadow  stretched  to  the 
road;  behind  it  lay  a  young  orchard;  to  the 
right  and  left  were  cultivated  fields.  A  brook 
meandered  through  the  meadow,  its  banks 
graced  by  an  occasional  great  elm.  In  the 
shade  of  one  a  flock  of  sheep  lazily  chewed 
their  cuds.  A  milch  cow  and  a  young  calf 


of  brut**? 


SCROGGINS 

stood  beyond  them.  "  It's  the  same  old  place," 
said  Scroggins,  "  only,  the  old  orchard's  gone, 
and  so  is  the  hickory  tree  that  stood  over  yon 
der.  Guess  lightnin'  struck  it." 

Hesitatingly  he  passed  into  the  meadow. 
"This  old  brook  hain't  changed  a  bit,"  he 
muttered.  The  cow  looked  up,  then  resumed 
her  occupation  of  licking  the  back  of  her  calf. 
"  And  if  I  didn't  know  it  war  fifty  years  ago, 
I'd  bet  thet's  old  Brindle!  Seems  es  if  I'd 
better  let  thet  calf  inter  the  barnyard-lot,  it 
ain't  best  fer  it  to  run  with  the  cow."  Agree 
able  to  his  thought,  scarcely  thinking  of  the  im- 


[80] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


propriety  of  the  liberty  he  was  taking,  Scrog- 
gins  picked  up  a  stick,  drove  cow  and  calf  to 
the  adjacent  barn-lot,  let  down  the  upper 
bars,  and  adroitly  lifted  the  calf  over  into  the 
lot. 

"There!  "  he  said,  "if  Lucy  Moore  owns 
you,  I've  done  her  a  good  turn.  If  you're 
some  other  feller's  critter,  I  hain't  hurt  him 
none.  It  seems  mightily  like  old  times!" 
He  stopped  abruptly,  for  as  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  house,  standing  in  the  back  door,  just 
across  the  narrow  space  that  separated  the 
barn-lot  from  the  kitchen,  stood  a  white-haired 


[81] 


SCROGGINS 

woman.  She  was  gazing  at  Scroggins.  "  I'm 
in  fer  it  now,  sure,"  he  continued,  "and  it's 
pow'rful  like  the  dream!"  Strange  how 
timid  a  coarse  man  can  become  under  new 
conditions,  or  under  discomposing  influences. 
Scroggins  advanced  hesitatingly,  but  instead 
of  going  directly  towards  the  woman  he 
passed  diagonally  around  the  house,  then 
towards  the  front  door,  and  knocked.  The 
door  was  opened  by  the  woman  he  had  seen. 
The  face  was  pleasant,  the  expression  peaceful 
and  kindly,  the  hair  snow-white,  the  calico 
dress  neat,  with  apron  of  the  olden  style. 
Wrinkles  were  in  the  cheek,  and  furrows  in  the 


[82] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


forehead,  but  they  made  a  graceful  setting  to 
a  charming  home-picture,  such  as  often  ap 
peared  in  New  England  rural  scenes.  No  need 
to  tell  Scroggins  that  this  was  the  Lucy  of 
other  days.  It  was  as  a  picture  of  a  land 
scape  in  autumn  that  one  has  left  in  spring 
time. 

"Will  you  not  come  in?"  The  voice  of 
Lucy,  too. 

"Thank  ye,  ma'am,  if  ye  don't  mind,  I'll 
stop  a  bit."  The  same  room,  nearly  the  same 
furniture.  On  the  wall  hung  two  enlarged 
portraits.  The  father  and  mother  of  Lucy 
looked  down  on  the  newly  met  relics  of  the 


[83] 


older  day.  Once  more  Scroggins  sat  in  the 
same  room  with  Lucy,  once  more  the  voice  of 
her  mother  pierced  his  heart.  The  words  she 
spoke  in  that  last  audience  seemingly  vibrated 
in  the  air:  "Love  comes  without  thought, 
James."  "And  to  such  as  me,  love  hangs  on, 
and  on,  and  on,"  Scroggins  mentally  replied. 
Then  in  his  mind  he  added:  "I've  got  ter  do 
some  tall  lyin'  ef  I  git  out  of  here  without 
givin'  myself  away,  but  when  it's  f er  the  best, 
Scroggins  kin  lie  a  leetle  !  " 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,  I'm  lookin'  fer 
Jerusha  Moore's  house." 

"  This  is  the  place,"  she  replied. 


[84] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


"  Hev  you  lived  hereabout  fer  long, 
ma'am?" 

"  I  was  born  in  this  house." 
"Hev  you  any  sisters  or  brothers?" 
"  No.      I'm  alone;  alone  with  a  man  and  his 
wife  who  live  in  the  back  rooms  and  care  for 
the  place."     Raising  her  eyes  to  the  portraits 
she  added:     "Father  and  mother  have  been 
dead  more  than  twenty  years." 

"Did  you  lose  yer  husband  early,  ma'am?" 
The  old  man  raised  his  eyes,  and  scanned  the 
walls.  The  portrait  of  Jerusha  Moore  was 
the  only  man's  portrait.  He  need  not  have 
asked  the  question. 


[85] 


SCROGGINS 

The  woman  flushed.  "  I  have  never  been 
married,  sir."  Then  she  added,  for  it  seemed 
as  though  the  aimless  questions  had  become  too 
personal.  "Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 
The  "you"  was  slightly  emphasised. 

"Yes'm.  I've  come  a  long  ways,  ma'am, 
and  when  I  started  from  the  West  I  promised 
my  old  pardner  I'd  look  up  the  Moores. 
That's  what  I've  done  stopped  here  fer, 
ma'am."  Then,  without  giving  her  a  chance 
to  reply,  he  continued:  'That  pardner  of 
mine  said,  said  he,  if  I  met  Lucy  Moore,  ter 
ask  her  a  question,  and  that's  what  I'm  doin', 
ma'am.  I  hope,  ma'am,  you  won't  think  hard 


[86] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


of  me.  Kin  I  see  Lucy  Moore,  ef  she's 
livin'?" 

"  I  am  Lucy  Moore." 

"Thank  ye,  ma'am."  The  eyes  of  the 
speaker  sought  the  portraits.  He  was  afraid 
to  look  the  woman  in  the  face.  "  She'd  never 
suspicion  me  if  she  war  a  man,  but  Lord! 
Scroggins,  you've  got  ter  think  quick,  and 
speak  ter  the  pint  ef  you  git  out  of  this  'thout 
bein'  found  out,"  he  added  mentally.  Then 
he  continued :  :<  That  pardner  of  mine  said, 
said  he,  '  Pardner,  when  you  git  East,  hunt  up 
the  Moores  on  the  South  Road,  beyond  the  hill. 
Then  see  if  Lucy's  livinY  That's  what  I'm 


[87] 


SCROGGINS 

here  fer,  ma'am,  and  now  that  I've  found  out 
she's  livin',  I'll  be  goin'."  He  picked  up  his 
hat  and  started  to  rise  from  his  chair.  Strange 
that  he  should  have  expected  to  be  allowed 
to  depart  without  further  explanation  after 
rousing  a  woman's  curiosity  as  he  had  done. 

"  Please  be  seated.  Tell  me  of  this  partner. 
Why  did  he  ask  about  me?" 

"  Thar's  nothin'  much  ter  tell  'bout  him." 

"  What  was  his  name? " 

"  Said  he,  *  When  you  find  Lucy  Moore, 
p'raps  she'll  remember  me,  p'raps  she  won't. " 
Scroggins  was  evidently  much  disturbed. 


[88] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


His  evasive  reply  seemed  but  to  increase  her 
interest. 

"Please  tell  me  the  name  of  this  partner?" 

"Don't  you  remember  no  one  who  knew 
you,  'long  'bout  the  twenties,  er  before?  No 
one  who  mought  hev  called  you  '  Lucy? ' :  A 
flush  came  to  the  cheek  of  the  woman,  a  flush 
that  told  Scroggins  that  now  she  was  on  the 
defensive. 

'  That  was  in  my  girlhood.  I  was  then 
known  as  Lucy  to  everyone." 

"  Don't  you  remember  no  one  pertic'lar  per 
son  who  went  off,  and  mought  hev  thought  a 


[89] 


SCROGGINS 

bit  'bout  Lucy  Moore  twixt  then  and  now? 
No  one  who  Lucy  mought  hev  thought  'bout, 
too?  That's  nigh  'bout  what  that  pardner  of 
mine  told  me  ter  say,  ef  occasion  permitted." 
The  flush  disappeared,  a  pallor  replaced  it. 
She  who  had  lived  these  years  as  Lucy  Moore 
because  she  had  been  faithful  to  one  she  be 
lieved  faithless  to  herself,  knew  now  who  was 
that  partner.  But  in  the  coarse,  bearded  man 
before  her,  could  she  have  been  expected  to 
recognise  the  boy  who,  in  his  teens,  had  left 
her? 


[90] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


"  I  had  a  friend  once,  a  boy  friend,  who  left 
our  home  one  cold  night,  never  to  return.  I 
have  often  thought  of  him.  He  might,  if 
living,  have  thought  of  me."  She  spoke  very 
low,  and  waited  the  reply. 

"Was  he  a  bad  boy,  ma'am?" 
."No." 

"  Then  he's  not  pardner."  The  eyes  of 
Scroggins  sought  the  portrait  of  the  mother. 
"Did  your  mother  approve  of  that  boy, 
ma'am?" 

The  question  irritated  the  listener.  This 
stranger  was  impertinently  prying  into  her 

affairs.     And  yet  she  must  know  more  about 

"Jl  •.: 


[91] 


SCROGGINS 

the  man  who  had  sent  the  message.  "  Mother 
was  very  fond  of  Jimmie.  She  was  distressed 
when  he  ran  away." 

With  mind  still  on  the  mother,  the  man  eyed 
the  portrait.  "  Damn  the  old  woman ! "  he  said 
to  himself:  "that's  one  p'int  ag'in  her."  Gaz 
ing  still  at  the  portrait,  he  continued: 

"  That  pardner  of  mine,  ma'am,  was  kinder 
queer  'bout  some  things.  One  war  that  he 
told  me  jest  'nough  'bout  this  Lucy  Moore  to 
tell  nuthin'.  I  guess,  ma'am,  I  can't  help  you 
much,  ma'am."  Again  he  started  to  rise. 


[92] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


"Be  seated,  please.  What  was  the  name 
of  your  friend?" 

"  Did  you  miss  anything  the  night  that  boy 
ran  off.  P'raps  he  stole  a  pile." 

"  Nothing  but  a  keepsake  he  had  given  me  a 
few  days  before.  That  disappeared  the  night 
James  left  home." 

"P'raps  you'll  excuse  the  question,  but  I 
memberlect,  now,  that  pardner  told  me  he 
didn't  take  nothiri  that  b'longed  to  no  one." 

"  If  he  is  the  boy  I  have  in  mind,  he  took  a 
little  music-box  that  belonged  to  me"  She 
spoke  positively,  earnestly. 


[93] 


SCROGGINS 

"Didn't  you  give  the  box  to  your  mother, 
ma'am?  'Peers  ter  me  that  I've  a  recollection 
Jim  said  somethin'  'bout  that  occasion." 

"  Mother  was  surprised  to  know  that  it  had 
disappeared."  Scroggins'  eyes  were  again 
fixed  on  the  portrait.  He  seemed  to  see  the 
lips  move.  He  surely  heard  the  sound  of  her 
words  as  she  handed  him  the  box  that  day. 
And  then  it  came  to  him  that  in  it  all  the 
mother  had  not  said  that  Lucy  had  returned 
the  box,  or  given  it  to  her  to  be  returned. 
"Damn  the  old  cuss!"  Scroggins  mentally 


LUCY 


MOORE 


ejaculated.  "I've  been  a  fifty-year  fool!" 
Then,  to  Lucy: 

"Miss  Moore,  p'r'aps  you'll  pardon  me  fer 
takin'  the  part  of  pardner  Jim.  He's  a  tough 
old  feller,  but  he  didn't  steal  that  music-box 
that  night,  ner  he  didn't  take  it  out  of  your 
room.  Jim's  bad  in  some  ways  now,  ma'am, 
but  he  want  never  mean  'nough  ter  hev  took 
nothin'  from  Lucy  Moore." 

"How  can  I  know  you  speak  the  truth? 
How  do  I  know  you  have  any  right  to  speak 
at  all?  You  are  a  stranger." 

Scroggins  peered  intently  at  the  speaker. 


[95] 


SCROGGINS 

She  made  no  sign  of  recognition.  The  love 
of  half  a  century  held  in  sacred  memory  a 
fresh- faced  boy.  The  grizzled  old  man  had  no 
part  therein. 

Slowly  Scroggins'  hand  sought  his  pocket, 
more  slowly  it  was  withdrawn,  half  concealing 
within  it  a  small  package.  Between  the 
fingers  could  be  seen  folds  of  faded  tissue 
paper.  "Jim  said  to  me,  said  he,  'Pardner, 
p'r'aps  you'll  find  Lucy  in  the  old  place  yet, 
and  p'r'aps  she'll  not  recollect  me  outen  some- 
thin'  ter  mind  her  of  old  times.'  P'r'aps, 


[96] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


ma'am,  this  'ere  bit  of  whatever  it  is  '11  tell 
whether  pardner  Jim  had  ever  known  you,  and 
p'r'aps  it'll  sartify  ter  my  right  ter  speak  fer 
old  Jim  Scroggins." 

As  the  keepsake  was  placed  in  the  hand  of  the 
listener,  a  tiny  touch  of  melody  arose,  a  tink 
ling  that  was  familiar  to  both  the  occupants  of 
the  room,  the  continuance  of  a  ballad  that  had 
been  suspended  fifty  years  before.  Strange 
that  this  music-box,  which  had  been  thumped 
the  country  over,  which  had  never  been  wound 
since  it  left  the  home  of  the  girl,  should  have 
taken  up  the  broken  thread  when  it  again 


[97] 


SCROGGINS 

touched  the  hand  of  her  for  whom  the  boy  had 
sacrificed,  first  so  great  a  portion  of  his  small 
wealth,  and  next  his  life's  happiness.  The 
woman  said  nothing.  While  she  held  the  box, 
which  had  pleaded  its  own  story,  Scroggins 
continued:  "Jim  Scroggins  said,  said  he, 
'Pardner,  if  you  find  Lucy  Moore,  pervided 
she  ain't  married,  give  her  this  leetle  keepsake 
and  say  ter  her,  "  Lucy,  Jim  took  it  away,  and 
took  himself  away  too,  because  he  loved  Lucy 
Moore  too  much  to  run  no  risk  of  disgracin' 
her  by  lovin'  her  no  stronger."  Say  ter  her 
that  it  pow'ful  nigh  broke  his  heart  ter  go 
away  ferever,  but  fer  Lucy's  sake  it  had  ter 
be  done,  and  he  did  it.  It's  a  long  time  back,' 


[98] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


said  Pardner  Jim,  'but  ter  me,  Lucy  is  still 
little  Lucy.  Tell  her  so  if  you  see  her.  Never 
the  time  has  been  that  I  hain't  grown  to  love 
her  stronger  each  day  than  I  did  the  day  be 
fore.  Say  to  her  that  I've  kept  this  little  box 
in  the  face  of  more  troubles  than  any  dozen 
men  in  any  Eastern  town  have  ever  thought 
of,  and  that  now  Scroggins  sends  it  back 
askin'  that  Lucy  Moore'll  keep  it  in  the  old 
house  till ' " 

"Until  what?" 

"  'Till '  That's  all  he  said,  ma'am." 

Scroggins  turned  to  the  door,  and  stopped. 


Old 

SCROGGINS 


crude 


, 
artty 


[99] 


SCROGGINS 

"  Hev  you  any  word  to  send  ter  pardner  Jim, 
ma'am? " 

"  May  he  not  possibly  return  to  the  home  of 
his  boyhood,  and  speak  for  himself?" 

"  He's  been  too  long  in  the  moun'ns,  ma'am. 
I  ken  say  fer  sure  that  he'll  never  come  nearer 
the  old  home  than  he  is  now.  Besides,  ma'am, 
it's  best  fer  him  not  ter  come.  You  wouldn't 
know  the  old  man  now,  and  it  would  be  wicked 
fer  him  to  let  you  see  him.  The  pink  of  his 
cheek  is  all  gone,  ma'am,  the  skin  of  his  hand 
is  tough  and  rough,  the  beard  on  his  face  and 


[100] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


chin  is  coarse  as  pig's  bristles,  the  hair  on  his 
neck  grows  down  ter  his  chest,  and  his  head  is 
as  bald  as  a  punkin.  B 'sides,  he  drinks 
whiskey  like  as  a  fish  drinks  water,  chaws  ter- 
backer  that'd  kill  a  pig,  and  he  kin  lie  a 
leetle,  too.  Jest  you  keep  thinkin'  of  Jimmie  as 
you  knew  him — you've  no  right  to  see  old 
Jim  Scroggins.  But,  ma'am,  I'll  say  ter  Jim 
when  I  sees  him,  *  Pardner,  Lucy  Moore's  been 
jest  as  true  ter  you  as  you  hev  been  ter  her. 
Don't  you  make  no  mistake  now.  Don't  you 
go  back.  Fight  the  battle  out,  Jim.  Look 
fer  Lucy  over  in  heaven." 


[101] 


SCROGGINS 

Lucy's  handkerchief  covered  her  face.  A 
slight,  convulsive  sob  broke  the  stillness. 
Then  Scroggins  continued:  "The  man's  a 
fool,  ma'am,  who  lives  till  he's  grey,  and  then 
goes  back  ter  his  old  home  thinkin'  ter  find 
nothin'  nat'ral,  er  ter  love,  'ceptin'  calves  and 
cows  and  sheep  and  sech.  That's  all,  ma'am." 
He  stood  on  the  outer  step.  "  P'r'aps  you've 
something  ter  say  ter  pardner?" 

"  Tell  Jimmie  that  Lucy  Moore  lives  in  the 
old  home,  comfortable  and  peaceful,  that  the 
attic-room  of  Jimmie  Scroggins  stands  jest  as 
he  left  it,  even  to  the  pencil  drawing  of  his 
sister  that  hangs  on  the  wall.  Say  to  him 
that  the  pain  of  Lucy's  heart  over  the  love  she 
bore  him*  long  since  disappeared  in  the  con- 


throu^K  flw  iandt 

of  arid 
N»w   Mexico  • 


[102] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


tentment  of  deep  disappointment.  Tell  him 
that  if  ever  necessity  requires,  or  if  he  ever 
feels  a  longing  that  needs  be  heeded,  the  old 
home  is  still  his  home,  and  that  he  can  come 
back  and  live  in  it  as  though  it  were  his  own. 
We  will  go  on  to  life's  end,  he,  Jimmie  Scrog- 
gins,  and  I,  Lucy  Moore."  She  pressed  the 
music-box  to  her  heart,  a  tear  rolled  down  her 
cheek.  The  old  man  turned  his  head,  a  mighty 
struggle  shook  him.  That  tear  came  near 
proving  his  undoing.  "Fer  Lucy's  sake  it 
mussent  be!"  he  mentally  ejaculated.  "I'm 
a  brute,  and  she's  an  angel."  Conquering  his 
emotion,  which  seemingly  passed  unobserved, 
he  took  from  his  pocket  the  envelope  that  held 
the  deposit  account. 


[103] 


SCROGGINS 

"Jim  never'll  need  nothin',  ma'am,  he's 
richer'n  sin.  Him  and  me  hev  been  pardners 
fer  a  mighty  long  time.  I  knows  Pardner 
Jim  'bout  as  well  as  he  knows  himself,  ma'am. 
We've  bunked  tergether,  and  fought,  and 
froze,  and  starved  tergether  too  long  fer  him 
ter  give  me  up  fer  no  one,  not  even  Lucy 
Moore.  He'll  never  come  no  nearer  here  than 
he  is  now,  ma'am.  Good-bye,  Lucy  Moore, 
good-bye  fer  pardner  Jim!"  Then,  as 
though  a  forgotten  duty  had  arisen,  he  took 
the  bank-book  from  the  envelope.  "  Here's  a 
present  that  Jim  asked  me  ter  hand  you,  ef  I 


[104] 


LUCY 


MOORE 


saw  you.  Use  it  fer  the  poor,  fer  the  church, 
fer  anything  Lucy  Moore  cares  fer.  It'll  be 
showin'  pardner  a  kindness,  fer  he  hain't  no 
chance  ter  help  no  one,  and  like  other  rich  men, 
he  can't  take  his  money  away  when  he  dies. 
That's  a  good  thing,  too,  ma'am,  or  these  old 
scavenger  misers  would  tote  the  world  down, 
down.  The  whole  earth  would  hev  been 
skinned,  and  everything  movable'd  hev  been 
burnin'  with  'em,  long  ago.  Good-bye, 
ma'am!"  He  strode  away,  turned  back. 
"Please,  ma'am,  Jim  didn't  steal  that  music 
box,"  then  muttered  to  himself,  "Damn  the 


[105] 


SCROGGINS 

devilish  old  busybody  who  told  me  that  white 
lie  which  drove  me  off  fifty  years  ago!  But 
it's  too  late,  now,  Scroggins." 

He  reached  the  road,  climbed  the  fence,  and 
for  the  first  time  (and  the  last  time,  too), 
gazed  back  across  the  stretch  of  meadow.  The 
grass  was  green  to  the  door,  between  the 
patches  of  elm-tree  shade  the  brook  glistened 
in  the  sunshine,  the  flock  of  sheep  lazily  lolled 
in  the  shadow,  the  old  cow  stood  with  head 
over  the  bars  licking  the  back  of  her  baby  calf, 
while  in  the  door  of  the  little  home  stood  Lucy. 
Alert  old  Scroggins,  his  expert  eye  strength 
ened  by  the  necessities  of  his  frontier  life, 


[106] 


* 

.^ — -&* 


HE    STRODE    AWAY,     TURNED    BACK        PLEASE    MA    AM,    JIM    DIDN  T 
STEAL    THAT    MUSIC    BOX.  ' 


LUCY 


MOORE 


caught  the  white  of  her  hair,  and  caught  the 
hand  pressed  to  her  heart.  No  need  to  say 
that  it  held  the  old  music-box.  Then  the 
wanderer  again  started  down  the  South  Road, 
as  he  retraced  his  steps  toward  the  new  city 
beyond  the  hill,  on  whose  summit  was  to  stand 
the  mighty  University  that  the  white  lie  of 
the  mother,  the  broken  lives  of  two  wrecked 
human  hearts,  the  shame  that  threw  two  waifs 
into  the  poorhouse,  had  together  conspired  to 
found.  An  institution  that  could  never  have 
been  but  for  these  sins  and  disappointments. 

It  was  dark  when  Scroggins  reached  the 
hotel.     He  sought  his  room,  took  a  mighty 


[107] 


SCROGGINS 

swig  out  of  the  bottle,  his  close  companion 
now,  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  muttered: 
"  I  wonder  if  I  did  fool  her,  after  all.  Damme 
if  I  don't  bel'eve  Lucy  Moore  knew  me  all 
the  time,  and  jest  drew  me  on!  It'd  be  jest 
like  a  woman  ter  do  it  1 " 


[108] 


CHAPTER    IX 

A   SECOND   REQUEST — "  WHEN    THE    OLD    MAN'S 

WORK  is  DONE" 

DURING  the  following  week  Scroggins  es 
tablished  to  the  satisfaction  of  those  in  whom 
the  trust  was  placed  that  he  could  fulfil  his 
promise  concerning  the  donation  of  a  million 
dollars.  And  not  only  did  he  make  a  bequest 
of  this  amount  as  an  endowment,  but  provided 
funds  of  sufficient  value  to  purchase  the  hill- 

i; 


SCROGGINS 

site  and  fifty  acres  of  picturesque  ground,  and 
to  build  the  University.  He  also  establised 
a  fund  to  educate  the  unfortunates  from  the 
county  poorhouse,  so  that  all  of  sufficient 
ability  to  rise  to  the  University  might  be  en 
abled  to  enter  its  doors.  The  details  were 
arranged,  the  methods  of  appointing  the 
trustees  devised,  and  that  of  filling  vacancies 
established  according  to  the  advice  of  the 
Judges  of  the  Court,  who  were  called  to  the 
conference,  and  were  to  appoint  two  of  the 
trustees.  Then,  in  reply  to  a  final  question, 
he  said: 

"I  wants  it  ter  be  remembered  that  I  ain't 


[110] 


A     SECOND     REQUEST 

a-doin'  this  f  er  glory.  Thar  ain't  no  glory  ter 
me  in  nothin'  but  drivin'  the  gulch  stage 
coach.  I  don't  want  no  name  of  Scroggins, 
neither,  stuck  outer  this  hill  University.  I 
ain't  a-givin'  this  money  fer  sech  an  object  as 
that.  Scroggins  ain't  pinched  no  widders  ner 
orphans,  an'  he  hain't  broke  up  no  man's  busi 
ness  fer  ter  git  rich.  He  ain't  ashamed  of 
nothin'  he  hes  done,  and  thar  ain't  no  reason 
ter  give  this  money  in  order  ter  stop  people 
talkin'  'bout  his  meanness,  er  ter  buy  his  way 
inter  heaven.  I'm  goin'  back  ter  stage- 
coachin',  and  I'm  mighty  glad  ter  git  shet  of 
this  money.  Thar's  only  one  reason  fer  me 


[111] 


SCROGGINS 

ter  give  it  ter  this  Eenstitution,  and  that  air  so 
that  young  people  may  larn  how  ter  think,  and 
so  that  poorhouse-childern  kin  hev  a  fair  show. 
Et  air  a  blessin'  ter  be  able  ter  git  pleasure 
out  of  nothin',  like  them  book-larned,  thinkin' 
people  kin  do.  I  hev  seed  fellers  without  a 
dollar  in  thar  pockets  stand  in  the  gulch  and 
talk  'bout  grand  scenes,  and  mightily  enj'y 
thinkin'  'bout  what  wa'n't  nothin'  ter  me  but 
a  deep  holler  and  a  high  stone  cliff.  I  hev 
seed  young  ladies  set  on  top  of  the  stage  and 
git  more  good  out  of  one  hour  of  life  in  goin' 
through  the  gulch,  than  Scroggins  got  in 


[112] 


A     SECOND     REQUEST 

travellin'  over  every  foot  of  that  blasted  coun 
try.  That's  because  them  folks  kin  think,  and 
Scroggins  can't.  When  a  feller  hes  an  empty 
pocket  and  a  head  full  of  thoughts,  he  kin  be 
happy.  When  a  feller  hes  a  million  dollars  in 
bank,  and  no  thoughts  outside  of  a  stage 
coach  team,  he  ain't  happy  lessen  he  air  holdin' 
of  the  lines.  It  air  a  farce  ter  tie  the  name 
of  sech  a  feller  es  me  ter  an  Eenstitution  fer 
teachin'  thinkin'.  Give  it  any  other  name  you 
please.  I  says  ag'in,  Scroggins  ain't  askin' 
no  return,  and  he  ain't  buyin'  no  man's  good 


[113] 


SCROGGINS 

will.  He  ain't  stole  no  money,  and  he  ain't 
tryin'  ter  put  no  fam'ly  inter  good  standin'. 
Et's  pow'ful  hard,"  he  continued,  "ter  put 
some  fam'lies  inter  good  standin'.  Millions 
of  dollars  can't  buy  no  pedigree,  and— 
He  hesitated,  stammered,  and  stopped  ab 
ruptly.  The  poorhouse  of  old  arose,  the 
phantom  face  of  his  sister  of  other  days  came 
before  him  again. 

"Proceed,  Mr.  Scroggins,"  said  the  mayor. 

Old  Scroggins  rubbed  his  hands  together  as 


[114] 


A     SECOND     REQUEST 

if  they  were  cold ;  he  muttered  to  himself  as  if 
arguing  a  point.  "Mebbe  I  am  wrong,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  Mebbe  I  am  a  leetle  wrong, 
but  not  'bout  the  famly  matter,  neither. 
Thar  is  one  thing  I'd  like  one  of  the  Scrog- 
ginses  ter  hev,  ef  it  kin  be  done,  but  I  kinder 
hate  ter  ask  fer  it." 

'  You  have  but  to  make  the  request  known, 
Mr.  Scroggins,"  said  the  mayor. 

"  Over  thar  in  the  graveyard,  the  old  grave 
yard,  thar  air  a  leetle  grave  in  the  poorhouse 
row."  Scroggins  took  out  his  pocket-book, 
carefully  unfolded  a  paper,  and  slowly  read: 


[115] 


SCROGGINS 

"  JENNIE  SCROGGINS, 
Poorhouse  Child, 

ONLY  SISTER  OF  JAMES  SCROGGINS. 

Died,  June  10,  1809. 

Aged  ten  years. 

"  Thet  air  on  the  stone.  Et  war  put  thar 
nigh  onter  fifty  year  ago  by  a  boy  who  spent 
fer  it  the  only  piece  of  gold  he  hed  ever 
handled.  Ef  it  air  possible,  ef  thar  hain't  no 
objections,  ner  no  disgrace  ter  the  Eenstitu- 
tion  fer  a  poorhouse-child,  who  didn't  hev  no 
father  ner  mother,  ter  lie  in  the  grounds, 


[116] 


A     SECOND     REQUEST 

Scroggins  would  like  ter  hev  what's  left  of 
that  leetle  darlin'  ter  be  moved  inter  a  shady 
spot,  off  in  some  corner  of  the  grounds,  and 
ter  hev  the  same  old  stone  sot  over  the  head." 
A  silence  such  as  this  sacred  request  alone 
could  bring  came  over  his  hearers.  For  once, 
the  lawyer  lost  his  tongue.  Scroggins  misin 
terpreted  the  failure  to  respond.  His  voice 
quivered  as  he  pleaded: 

"  She  war  a  mighty  leetle  thing! " 
Again  he  hesitated,  as  if  embarrassed,  then 
continued : 


[117] 


SCROGGINS 

"And  ef  it  air  not  askin'  too  much,  when 
the  lines  of  the  gulch-stage  air  dropped  out 
of  Scroggins'  hands,  he  would  like  might'ly 
ter  lie  beside  that  girl,  what  hev  slept  nigh 
onter  fifty  years." 

"  There  certainly  can  be  no  objection,"  said 
the  Judge  of  the  Superior  Court. 

"Thank  ye,"  the  old  man  answered. 
"  Scroggins  don't  ask  nothin'  more,  ef,  when 
the  old  man's  work  is  done,  a  little  cheap  stone, 
jest  like  the  one  over  Sister,  be  sot  alongside 
hers.  Here  is  the  writin'  fer  ter  go  onter  it." 


[118] 


From  the  same  pocket-book  he  took  another 
piece  of  paper,  on  which  was  awkwardly 
scrawled: 

JlM    SCROGGINS, 

Poorhouse  Child. 

Only  Bruther  of 

JENNIE  SCBOOGINS. 

Died  drivin'  the  Gulch  Stage. 


[119] 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000816457     6 


Un 


